


you say sorry just for show

by astere (sumaru)



Category: Bad Blood - Taylor Swift (Music Video)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Cybernetics, F/F, Romantic Face Punching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/pseuds/astere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Catastrophe feels the slide of something electric under the skin of her wrist, and it would bother her more if it didn’t promise, <i>we’ll bring her home</i>, if the sharpness running cold in her veins didn’t also promise, <i>we’ll bring them both home</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	you say sorry just for show

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maypop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypop/gifts).



They had said, no real names.

 

“Catastrophe.”

 

“Knockout.”

 

(“We will remake you,” they had also said, three voices blended smooth like chrome. She should have felt the small echo turning the last voice whisper soft, something out of synch, pinging uncomfortably against the inside of her skull; but at that time, she was still so new to all of this. Had wanted the soothe of it, for each razor sliver of glass she was still pulling from the long thick scars that fanned from her back like skeleton wings. “And your name will be how you remake yourself.”)

 

(Catastrophe unconsciously runs her tongue along the inside of her mouth, and tastes cold metal there. It somehow feels right.)

 

There’s no one here today but her and Knockout, and the silence is a halo hanging over them, large and eerie and calm, and even the heavy thumps of fists hitting flesh and bone is like the gentle rhythm of the sea breaking against the sand, moving like water, sweat like fine salt spray in the air.

 

But the blows still come fast, hard, and there’s a proud trickle of blood dripping down into the white of Catastrophe’s teeth before the dust is already settling.

 

The blood tastes hot and metal in her mouth, and somehow this also feels right.

 

Knockout has gloved hands thrown up in the air, victory playing the smile on her lips full of delight and a sweetness, crystal edged, _sharp_ , and she's laughing. The pretty column of her throat is golden in the low light of the boxing ring, and Catastrophe almost doesn't mind the dirt rubbing into the raw scrape of her knees where she fell to the last blow. She takes a breath, a heartbeat second to shake the afterlight from her eyes; her hands are down and head bowed, but like a sweetheart kiss, like the bitter of revenge on the back of the tongue, it gets swallowed down in the moment. Catastrophe spits blood onto the concrete, and smiles up into the light.

 

“Hey cupcake, lemme give you a hand.” And it's now the pale gold of Knockout’s hair that widens the smile on Catastrophe’s face as she accepts the offer, lets Knockout pull her up to stand beside her. Catastrophe’s knees are only a little unsteady, the fingers wrapped around hers only a little too warm.

 

When Catastrophe lifts the ropes to let Knockout through, hops a little curtsy with one hand leading and ladylike in teasing acknowledgment of the victor, Knockout can’t help the charmed little snort she makes as she ducks under the ropes to step out of the ring.

 

They walk out together; the beautiful purple and red of bruises blooming high on their cheeks, matching.

 

 

 

 

The second time they pull Catastrophe out from _under_ , the voices are no longer chrome; the overlapping whispers are echoing in twos instead of threes, and their tones go soft and hesitant trying to fill in that blank, grasping at words that should be there. It sparks a familiar anger in her chest, an acid in the belly that speaks of unexpected gravity, glass and metal like freefall.

 

“... we took the iron of your blood--”

 

“... and we made you--”

 

_This. From us._

 

Catastrophe balls her hands into fists at her side, feels more metal and wires snaking cold and new under the skin. A pinpoint of blue light appears at the edge of her vision as she gives a little throw of the head to sweep stray blond hair from her eyes; a heads-up display comes online, already documenting movement, air flow, gravity, girl voices laughing sweetly, a memory of lights and noise, _threats_.

 

_Hello Catastrophe_ , blue text types out across her vision, _I will do what I can to help. But this is all that they could salvage. This is all that is left. I’m sorry._

 

She doesn’t need to understand that a third voice is missing, that she needs to bring Trinity-1 home.

 

And she remembers the suitcase had contained a row of unknown chrome and computer chips.

 

_You didn’t know at the time_ , the script continues, and it would be disconcerting to have her thoughts read out like this, but it’s oddly comforting, an old photograph of a friend who knows you well, kept tucked inside a coat pocket. The mechanical remnants of a voice wash over her like smoothing the wrinkles from paper to see a familiar, friendly face.

 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get her back.”

 

Trinity-2 and Trinity-3 flank her as they tighten the bolts along the new metal alloy encasing her spine, and the gentleness of it is agreement. The metal has yet to warm to her skin, and it tingles a little still, electricity an imperceptible hum along her bones. She had been nervous at first, too human about this, too new, but she had quickly learned what it means to be better. Catastrophe feels the slide of something electric under the skin of her wrist, and it would bother her more if it didn’t promise, _we’ll bring her home_ _,_ if the sharpness running cold in her veins didn’t also promise, _we’ll bring them both home_ _._

 

 

 

 

The wall of the locker room is cold against her back as Knockout kisses her, breathless.

 

“My win,” and there’s a strand of blond hair in Catastrophe’s mouth, maybe hers, maybe Knockout’s, she can’t tell with their hands tangled together like this, in their hair undone and wild; on skin, warm and slick with sweat. She tastes salt in her mouth, and she laughs. Catastrophe’s thighs are still trembling from the practice match, a long round in the ring that had them circling each other like predator cats, sleek, all teeth and fists and wanting; but now they tremble even more weakly with Knockout’s long legs pushed between them.

 

“Guess this means you definitely have to come back so I can kick your ass next time,” Knockout grumbles against her hair, but there’s no meanness on her tongue as it runs light and wet against the shell of Catastrophe’s ear.

 

“Guess I’ll have to--” and Catastrophe loses her first promise in a sharp little breath, loses it completely as Knockout runs fingers down her bruised ribs and into the hollow dip of her hips.

 

 

 

 

“Do you even know what it is?” Arsyn bites the words in half, clips them fast and angry as she presses herself flat against the wall to take cover. Bursts of gunfire rattle in her ear, and she counts the rhythm of them. Her mirror compact has long since been broken, and if she feels slightly unbalanced without the familiar round shape pressing in her pocket, she doesn’t think too much of it. Arsyn always knew when to leave things behind. “Did you even think about what it can do?”

 

Two more bursts is an empty clip, two more shots and this game turns to her.

 

Arsyn doesn’t realise she counted wrong until she feels fire burning up her side, a spreading wetness of pain and blood so pinpoint sharp it drops her on her back, breath broken from her lungs. In the rubble with fingers pressed desperately to her side, she blinks at the dark smoke rising in ominous columns; the sky is so clear and bright, the blue of it blinds her.

 

There’s the soft clicking of heels on concrete; the thump of a spent assault rifle settling in the dirt by Arsyn’s head. Catastrophe just stands over her, framed tall against the sky, and she’s unreadable except for the little scrunch of her nose.

 

“You know, you should come home, too.”

 

 

 

 

(“I’m sorry.”)

 

(“Are you really?”)

 

 


End file.
